


Opium and Other Hymeneal Delights

by sixbeforelunch



Series: An Ink Stained Year [2]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Disability, F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixbeforelunch/pseuds/sixbeforelunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the wedding night of their dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opium and Other Hymeneal Delights

A man who had married a woman whom he loved, a woman whom he found more than usually alluring--a woman who had managed to discreetly indicate to him in no uncertain terms that she was not taken with the wave of prudery that seemed to be steadily enveloping society and was, in fact, a town-bred woman of fashion and she would thank him to remember that--such a man had no reason to dread his wedding night. Not, that is, unless his damnable hip had decided to plague him.

Masters was hovering. He coughed. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Fitzwilliam glanced up. He realized with some chagrin that he had been staring--no glowering--into the fire. He supposed the odd look on Masters' face might be a result of his own expression. He did not, after all, look the part of the joyous bridegroom. The delights of hymen lost their luster when weighed with a hip that throbbed steadily in time with his heartbeats. "Nothing else. Go. There may yet be cake downstairs."

Masters smiled and withdrew, leaving Fitzwilliam to help himself into his dressing down and darkly contemplate the night ahead. He did not want to go to his connubial bed and gain a carnal knowledge of his wife. He wanted to go to his own bed, take more opium than was prudent, pull the blankets over his head, and drift into blissful insensibility. This was sadly not a possibility. Caroline--now Mrs. Fitzwilliam--was not a woman to be denied.

He rubbed his stiff neck. If it must be done...

He belted his dressing gown and stepped out into the hall. The clock chimed midnight. He still could not conceive of how he had been convinced to spend his first wedded night at Kentridge. The ought to have returned from the church to a small reception and been in a carriage to Weymouth by noon, but Caroline had made a fuss about damp inns, his mother had insisted on a feast, and his father had--for once his father had agreed with him, and yet on this of all occasions, Lord Buxton had seen fit to defer to the women and let them have their way. The man ruled his house with an iron fist and yet relented on the one occasion his son might have appreciated some tyranny exercised in his behalf.

He crept down the hall, his hip causing him such agonies that his head ached in sympathy and his hands clenched at his sides. He felt like some illicit criminal, and pretended not to notice the maid who pretended not to notice him. At last he arrived at Caroline's door and knocked softly. Too softly, perhaps, because he needed to knock twice before the door opened.

He took one look at his bride and felt instantly guilty. She had taken some pains for him. Her head was so artfully arranged that she must have had her woman tend to it, but it was not precisely done. It was curled but not pinned, hanging loose around her shoulders. Yet, she was pale and her hands were twisted up in her chemise.

He smiled, hoped he looked something like reassuring, and said, "I am very sorry for having kept you waiting."

She only shrugged, and did not chide him for his inattentiveness, which concerned him more than any fit of pique would have.

"Shall we...sit?"

"If you like," Caroline said.

There was the bed, of course, but Caroline seemed uncomfortable enough. There were two chairs, neither large enough for two. It was ludicrous. They sat next to each other like two attendees at a ball. He shifted in his chair closer to her. Something in the movement aggravated his hip even further and he nearly cried out from the flare of pain. A hot sweat broke out on his back as he realized that it was entirely possible that his ardor for his wife might not be sufficient to overcome the agony of his hip. Conjugal bliss might be beyond his physical ability this night.

The rational course now was to confess it all to her, and ask if she happened to have a supply of laudanum, and if she minded if he swooned on her bed, but he was a Fitzwilliam and they were nothing if not stubborn. He would bed his wife if it killed him, or at least humiliate himself trying.

He moved to kiss her. It was a bad angle, and he caught her mouth somewhat off center, and when he tried to correct it, she moved right just as he moved left and it ended with him licking her cheek. Possibly it was the worst attempt at a kiss in the history of the world. He looked at Caroline. She rubbed at her cheek and he thought he saw her wince, but she said nothing. She seemed as out of sorts as he felt.

He cleared his throat. "I...ah...I can do better than that."

"I certainly hope so," Caroline muttered. He met her eyes and they both smiled, briefly, before turning their gazes down to the floor.

Her hands were twisted up in her chemise. He covered both of her hands with one of his, marveling at how slender and soft they were. He bent to kiss her again, and thought it was going rather better than the first time until Caroline suddenly pushed him away and stood, rushing to the window and throwing it open just in time to stick her head out into the night air and puke on the bushes below.

He stood, hissing with pain as he did so, and limped to the window--concern had stolen the last of his ability to hide his condition. He put his hand on her back and rubbed his thumb against her backbone. "Caro?"

She heaved again and he gathered up her hair. He waited in silence until she coughed and said, "I'm done." She let him guide her back into the room and toward the bed.

"Put the candles out. Please. And close the window. I need it dark. Please." 

He pulled the blanket over her. "Do you have a migraine?"

She nodded miserably and closed her eyes. He limped around the room, putting out the candles and closing the window. He pulled the bed curtains closed around her. He might have gone back to his own room, but the ache in his hip was so great and his exhaustion so overpowering that there was nothing for it but to lay down beside her and tuck a pillow under his knee.

"I ruined everything. I am so sorry," Caroline said.

"No, you did not."

"Yes, I did. This was supposed to be our perfect wedding night and I nearly vomited on you and you will probably have the marriage annulled for non-consummation and--"

He groped around in the dark until he found her hand. "Caro, right now my hip feels like someone is digging around in it with a hot poker. All I have wanted to do for the last two hours is lay down and try to sleep. You ruined nothing. You are merely one half of the most pathetic coupling in England."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

She squeezed his hand. "I love you."

"I love you," he assured her and adjusted the pillow under his knee.

"Richard?"

"Yes, my love?"

"There is a bottle of laudanum in my trunk. If you will fetch it, I will split it with you."

Fitzwilliam smiled. Despite this less than auspicious start, he thought they might do fairly well together after all.


End file.
